Flipped
by Zana Banana
Summary: The way Jin cracked his knuckles told Hwoarang that his headache was about to get a lot worse.


**Flipped**

The way Jin cracked his knuckles told Hwoarang that his headache was about to get a lot worse.

Asuka's new guest scanned the contents of the room from the doorway—the discarded clothes, the missing shirt, the undone pants—and ended on other man's face with ominous solemnity.

Hwoarang looked up, fumbling with the button, when the doorknob turned.

The voice was sharp to his ears as it floated through the space beneath the door. He thought he recognized it from somewhere, but could only concentrate on one thing at a time and decided then would be a good time to fix his pants.

"—thought you'd be in the lobby by this time—"

Just as he managed to pull himself to his feet—a bit uncoordinatedly—approaching footfalls sounded in the hall.

"Have to get up eventually," he convinced himself through gritted teeth.

Asuka scoffed in response, then continued on her way. When she was entirely out of sight, he swung his legs over the side of the bed—very, _very_ gingerly.

"I _did_ touch you," he remarked, a grin playing on his lips, "You said I was clawing at your clothes. That means I so much as touched you."

She didn't face him, but tossed a curious glance over her shoulder.

"You lied."

She'd only taken about three steps. "Yeah?"

"Asuka?"

She chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, then stood.

"I might have some Advil," she said pensively, turning toward the ajar bathroom door.

"Right." His eyes returned to hers. "You have anything I can take for this?"

"It _is _my room, you know." She frowned at him. "I can put my clothes wherever I want."

Hwoarang let his head fall back into the comforting gentleness of the pillow. "And your clothes are strewn all over the floor because?"

She stiffened defensively. "You deserved it!"

"Wait a minute," he replied slowly, "_You're_ part of the reason my head feels like it's gonna split open?"

She sighed. "Seeing my bed must have triggered those perverted gears in your head, 'cause you started clawing at my clothes—and taking yours off—so I punched you in the face to knock you out."

"So, against my better judgment," Asuka went on, "I decided to help you preserve at least a sliver of your dignity and dragged you away when no one was looking. I took you up here and tried to get you to lay down properly. I figured sleep would be the best remedy for the condition you'd put yourself in."

Hwoarang sucked in a breath through his teeth. "Ouch," he said, "Hopefully they all share my impeccable recollection skills." He chuckled lightly, then stifled it as an ache near his ribs announced its presence.

"I think everyone in the place got the message that you will always love them."

"Nothing too bad, I hope."

"Gladly," she answered, her tone dripping with saccharine sarcasm, "We were both at the party last night. You decided to bathe yourself in tequila. Next thing I knew you were falling off the stage after a duet with that guy, think his name's Steve—a touching rendition, I must say."

"Mind explaining this to me, then?" he responded, gesturing to his lower half.

She looked as though she was contemplating slapping him for suggesting such a thing, but decided against it, probably due to his already severe migraine. "Listen, jerk—I don't know what you _think_ happened last night, but you didn't so much as _touch_ me."

"I think it's a little late for that now, babe."

Her hair was damp, tied back in a small bun though the strands too short to reach were matted against her cheeks. Feeling his prying gaze, she gave him a stern look before self-consciously tightening the knot holding the folds of her robe closed.

When he opened his eyes, she was closer, now seated at the foot of the bed with a mild look of concern laced in her chestnut stare.

"Wish I wasn't," Hwoarang replied, squeezing his eyes shut as a particularly intense pang shot across his forehead, "Shit."

While he normally would have poked fun at her poor articulation, the hammering in his head made it difficult to do much of anything.

After a deathly silent and incredibly awkward pause, during which she seemed to be inwardly counseling with herself, she cleared her throat. "You're up."

Asuka stopped walking immediately. The shocked expression on her face—not to mention the fact she hadn't bothered to change immediately after her shower and was clad only in a short yellow robe—told him she hadn't planned on his waking.

His train of thought derailed as something rustled at the opposite end of the room. Forcing his neck to crane in the direction of the noise, he swallowed thickly at the sight of his female _companion _entering from the adjoining bathroom.

It seemed to him he'd wound up in a female combatant's room, and, well, one could only assume—but none of them thought of him that way, or so he thought—then again, she could have been—

His memory wasn't exactly cooperating, but there _were_ a few things he could piece together; headache from hell, party, different bed, feminine clothes on the floor, missing shirt, undone pants.

His eyes widened considerably as they registered the form-fitted blue tee that barely reached his navel. He tore the article from his body as quickly as his pulsing coherence would allow, then threw it back to where he'd retrieved it.

It _definitely_ wasn't his shirt.

Easing the shirt over his head proved to be the least of his problems. It wasn't until after he'd pushed his arms through the holes—a surprisingly tight fit, he discovered—that he looked down.

Nudging his way closer to the edge of the bed, he extended a hand and groped the floor as far as he could reach for a stitch of clothing. Feeling something soft brush against his fingertips at last, he grasped it and tugged.

Hwoarang attempted to sit up again, only to land himself in even more agony. Giving up, he resumed his sprawled position, now certain the only way he was going to find his shirt was through blind searching.

It _definitely_ wasn't his room.

The scent of strawberries, mostly likely emanating from the pillow, reached his senses.

Brows furrowing in frustration, he looked around him. The bed was exactly like every other one in the Mishima Hotel, but something wasn't right.

Surveying his surroundings through perplexed eyes, slightly narrowed in the aftermath of a constant grimace, his gaze traveled first down his own body. His torso was completely exposed, his pants in fact unbuttoned yet still hanging lazily around his hips.

He closed his eyes briefly, mentally willing the pain to subside even for a moment, then took a deep breath, knowing he needed to focus on the situation at hand.

It was a killer migraine if he'd ever experienced one, brought about by some unknown incident that must have taken place between the time he awoke and the last thing he remembered—leaving for the stupid farewell party for the fifth Iron Fist.

Settling back against a pillow, he held the side of his head, wincing as he tried to bring _some_ condolence to the throbbing temple.

It was only when he'd shot upright a bit too fast, earning him a pounding head and buzzing ears, that he arrived at the conclusion panic would not be in his best interest at that moment.

Waking up to find himself disoriented in an unfamiliar place with a bare chest and unzipped pants, however, _was_.

Waking up to find himself disoriented in an unfamiliar place wasn't necessarily a cause for alarm with Hwoarang.


End file.
